


Apologies for Vomiting are Unnecessary

by R00bs_Teacup



Series: sickfic where Porthos is sick because you know... [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Other, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 15:48:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9555827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: Porthos is sick! What a surprising twist.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CanadianGarrison](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadianGarrison/gifts).



> Sylvie appears at the end but she's not much in it.
> 
> PORTHOS VOMITS A LOT.

Athos gets in early, after deciding he can’t be bothered to go back to work. On Fridays he goes to the local pre-school and does reading with the kids, work lets everyone take a couple of hours a week for local volunteering opportunities, and he only has an hour or so left afterwards, so he just comes home to answer emails and do a little bit of work. He’s considering his priorities and what really needs to get done before he can actually clock out completely, when he hears the toilet flush, and freezes. No one else is meant to be home yet - Sylvie never finishes till six because she likes to have mornings to do things and doesn’t go in till eleven, and does flexi-time, and Porthos doesn’t finish till five on Fridays, later if he’s got class meetings. So maybe it’s a burglar using the loo. Athos tiptoes through to stand outside the bathroom door, heart pounding. And hears someone throwing up. He pushes the door in and sees Porthos, hunched over the loo, vomiting. 

“Oh,” Athos says, body relaxing, scaling down the panic of fight or flight to a gentle worried thrum. “It’s you.”

Porthos doesn’t reply, just makes a hollow kind of gagging sound and retches, before bringing up a wave of vomit. Athos winces and looks away, swallowing. Personally, he likes to be left alone and no one come within ten feet of him when he’s sick. Porthos, though. Porthos likes cuddling. So Athos braces himself and goes to kneel beside him, resting a hand in the middle of his back. He wrinkles his nose at the smell and reaches over to flush. Porthos shudders, leaning toward Athos, and Athos braces himself again. 

“What happened?” Athos asks. 

Porthos just groans, arms wrapped around his belly. He’s sweating, damp against Athos’s side. Athos waits, and feels disgust curling through him as the dampness starts creeping through his shirt as well as Porthos’s. The publishing house likes Athos to come in a suit, or at least a crisp white shirt and black jeans. As department head for design, he has to also look ~artistic~. So he has a floppy little scarf, which he loves, and a beard, which he also loves, and fancy gloves, which Porthos bought him and loves. They have roses embroidered on them. Basically, these aren’t clothes he really wants Porthos sick-sweating through. Porthos sits up, and Athos has a split second of thinking Porthos read his mind before he registers the increased trembling and stiffening. He puts a hand against Porthos’s forehead, the other holding his shoulder, and supports Porthos as he throws up again. And then again. 

“Sweetheart,” Athos murmurs, not caring about his clothes or the smell or the sweat anymore. “Jesus.”

Porthos finally manages to sit back, limp against Athos, mouth hanging open. Athos flushes, then feels along the edge of the bathtub for the washcloth Sylvie usually leaves there in the mornings, reaches up to the sink to wet it, and washes Porthos’s face. He folds the flannel when he’s done and holds it against the back of Porthos’s neck. 

“S’rry,” Porthos whispers, voice rough and thready. 

“Apologies for throwing up become unnecessary after this long,” Athos says. “Besides, this is far from the worst. You threw up on my head once. And then there’s the time you threw up in my briefcase on the bus. And the time you got horrendously drunk and threw up on me while I was sleeping. And the time -”

“Shut up,” Porthos says, cutting off the litany, shifting a little. 

“Are you alright? Something you ate?” Athos suggests. 

“I threw up in class.”

Athos winces, and wraps his arms around Porthos’s shoulders. It’s not the first time Porthos has thrown up at school- in ten years it’s bound to happen - but it is the first time he’s done it in class, while teaching. As far as Athos knows, anyway. 

“Are you poorly?” Athos asks, feeling Porthos’s forehead. “Maybe the flu. You don’t feel hot, just clammy and sweaty.”

“Feel dizzy. And sick,” Porthos says. 

“Alright. I’ll take a temp with a thermometer. Come on, bed,” Athos says. Porthos groans, and goes limper, looking up at Athos with big eyes, which are slightly glassy. Athos concededs. “Alright, sofa.”

Porthos smiles at him. Athos has to help him get up off the floor, his knees are very trembly and he sways alarmingly for a moment, before Athos ducks under his arm and takes his weight, steadying him. Porthos sags, then straightens and stumbles through. Athos gets him water, a bowl, painkillers, crackers, and, after a moment’s consideration, the pills Sylvie takes for menstrual pain. And the thermometer. Then gets a duvet. Then gets a blanket. And Sylvie’s Harry Potter DVDs. Then he remembers he has work he has to get in before end of day today and fetches his briefcase. Porthos has fallen asleep by the time Athos has done all this, so Athos sets himself up in the armchair, tucks Porthos in, and settles down. Then he gets up again and fetches the stuffed bunny he gave Sylvie recently, as a ‘oh look I thought of you when I saw this’ gift, and tucks it in with Porthos. Then gets the flannel and a bowl of water. Then sponges Porthos’s forehead, in case he does have a fever. The thermometer goes in his mouth, and he’s got that wide open and gaping for snoring, so Athos can’t check while he’s asleep. Athos remembers his work again, and gets it done while Porthos rests. Athos is dozing off, pretending to answer emails (he’s got the important stuff done), when Porthos wakes up, yawns, turns over, and sneezes. Athos starts counting, after a bit, and gets to twenty before Porthos finishes. 

“Gesundheit?” Athos says. “Are you done?”

Porthos sniffs tentatively, then sits up, hand over his face. Athos laughs and gets him a bunch of tissue from the bathroom, then decides to just bring the entire loo roll in. Porthos tugs Athos when he hands over the roll, so Athos sits. Porthos nods and settles himself against Athos’s side, arranging blanket, loo roll, and bowl. 

“Are you feeling sick?” Athos says, eyeing the bowl. He’s changed from his shirt to a t-shirt, which is better for sick people, but still. 

“No,” Porthos says, smiling, pressing his cheek to Athos’s chest. “Mm. You’re warm. Stomach’s fine, I think that’s over.”

“You’re so weird about being poorly,” Athos says, exasperated. “Who throws up a half-dozen times, then is fine?”

“Fairly normal,” Porthos says. “I’m normal. Go away. Anyway, maybe it was just something I ate, or something. Meds.”

“You’ve been taking that for six months,” Athos says.

“GP bumped me, last visit,” Porthos says.

“And you didn’t mention… why?” Athos says. 

“Dunno,” Porthos says, rubbing his cheek against Athos’s t-shirt. “Soft one. Mine.”

Athos looks down, and sure enough, it’s a hufflepuff yellow with a badger. Porthos’s. From the first time they went to Harry Potter studios. Athos shrugs, and tucks the blanket fussily around Porthos. Who then fussily rearranges it. They play at that for a bit, reorganising the blanket till they’re both satisfied. Then Porthos sneezes again. Just once.

“Bless?” Athos suggests, tentative. 

“Yeah, I’m done,” Porthos says, letting out a little cough. “I think I have a fever.”

“You’re so damned weird,” Athos says, again. “First you sneeze over twenty times, then just once?”

“Normal. I’m normal. Go away. Fever.”

Athos sticks the thermometer in his mouth and puts the TV on. Porthos goes tense, and Athos yanks the thermometer out of his mouth and snatches up the bowl, getting it in place in time for Porthos to bend in half and open his mouth, vomit coming out in a rush. 

“That was sudden,” Athos says. Porthos gasps, shudders, and opens his mouth again, moaning. “Alright, you’re ok.”

Athos doesn’t try to take his temp again. Instead he cleans the bowl and makes a hot water bottle, and coaxes Porthos to sip some water, and wraps around him and rubs his back and strokes his hair. Porthos curls around Sylvie’s rabbit and closes his eyes, tucking in under Athos’s chin. Aathos rests a cheek against Porthos’s head, and Porthos sighs. 

“Stomach not quite fine, then,” Athos says. “Shall we ask Sylvie to get some ginger ale on the way home, and maybe a thermometer that doesn’t go in your mouth and make you gag?”

“Wasn’t that,” Porthos says. 

“How would you know? You didn’t even notice it coming,” Athos says. He texts Sylvie to get ginger ale. Porthos sticks the thermometer stubbornly in his mouth, and doesn’t throw up before it beeps. “Yeah, you do have a fever.”

“Yeah,” Porthos agrees with another deep sigh. Athos’s lips twitch, amused. “Stop laughing.”

“I’m not,” Athos says. “How’s your belly?”

“Steady,” Porthos says. “Fine. I’m fine. I’m fine.”

“Mm?” 

“I want to go home,” Porthos whispers. 

“You are home, lovely,” Athos whispers back, kissing his curls. 

“Oh yeah,” Porthos whispers, sighing a third time, and then sneezing. And again and again, ten times. “Bless me.”

“Bless you, Mr Normality,” Athos says. 

“I have a headache,” Porthos says. “Let me be pathetic and stay snugged here?”

“Okay. Can I put something good on TV?”

“No, you have bad taste.”

“Voltron,” Athos says, silencing Porthos. Who likes Voltron. It’s the one TV show they both watch. Athos grins and gets Netflix up on the TV, finding his favourite episode. It’s the one where Hunk and Pidge get attacked by the green food goo. 

“Does he remind you of me?” Porthos asks. 

“Who? Pidge? Yeah, a bit,” Athos says. 

“Hunk, you dolt,” Porthos says. 

“No, not really. Well, you both like cooking,” Athos says. “It’s Aramis who has that ADHD attention switch thing going on. Hunk’s clever but he’s always thinking of a million things, and ten to one the thing he needs to be thinking of is not the thing that’s gonna come out his mouth.”

“Mm. Like ‘mis,” Porthos mumbles. 

“Are you ok?” Athos asks, looking away from the TV to look at Porthos instead. “Mm?”

“Yeah,” Porthos says. And sneezes. Twice. 

“Bless you,” Athos says, giving him the loo roll. “Sure?” 

“Yes. I like Shiro, he’s cool,” Porthos says. “And Allura. She’s probably the best, right? Her and Pidge. And Hunk and Lance are great, too, and the moustache…”

“Coran,” Athos says. 

“Mm. And Shay, she was cool. I like her. And those tree people, but I skimmed that episode and don’t remember them well.”

“So basically, you like everyone except Keith?” Athos says, lips twitching again. 

“Yeah,” Porthos says with a sigh that makes him cough. “But I like Keith, too. Especially in the one where he goes in that weird worm stomach thing.”

Athos laughs, curling around Porthos to hug him with all his body. 

“I love you a lot,” Athos says. “You’re such a silly, sometimes.”

Porthos wriggles so he can see Athos, and he’s smiling, amused. 

“That is not what I’m like!” Athos says. “I have favourites! Sometimes!”

Porthos nods, setting his face into seriousness, then laughs, coughing. Athos feels him tense and gets the bowl, but he doesn’t throw up. Just sneezes a half dozen times. Then a dozen more. 

“Gesundheit,” Athos says. 

“Shiro’s my favourite,” Porthos croaks, when he’s done sneezing, and blowing his nose, and coughing. “I don’t feel well.”

“I know,” Athos soothes. “Both those. And yes, I have trouble choosing who I like best. It’s good, it means I can always write fic about your faves.”

“True,” Porthos says. “Think I might nap again, if I can get to sleep.”

“Lie down. I’ll help,” Athos says. 

Porthos curls up with his head in Athos’s lap, and Athos rubs his chest in slow, quiet circles, humming quietly, watching the TV idly. Porthos dozes off quickly, mouth open again and snoring and coughing. Athos looks down at him and strokes the hair on his forehead, the fizz and cloud of it, then over his forehead, the round of his cheek, cradling, thumb over the familiar shapes, gazing, a little enrapt. His heart’s too full and there’s a lump in his throat, at the sprawl and beauty of Porthos. He’s so lovely, and so dear, Athos’s most precious darling. Though he’d never think something so trite. Except he kinda did just think that. He’s feeling faintly embarrassed, so when Sylvie comes in, he flushes. 

“What?” Sylvie asks, leaning in the doorway, beaming at him, still with DMs laced up her ankles, skirt skimming the tops, high waisted, colourful. 

“Porthos,” Athos says, shrugging. “He’s sick. I was thinking tender things.”

Sylvie beams wider, then bends to unlace herself, kicking off her boots, getting out of her socks, coming over barefoot. She leans down to kiss Athos, then Porthos’s forehead, then perches on the arm of the sofa, looking down at them. 

“What’s wrong?” She asks, finally. 

“Fever, headache, sneezing, coughing, vomiting,” Athos lists. “Flu.”

“Or a bug.”

“No, it’s the flu,” Athos says. “He’ll be feeling like death by tomorrow. It’s going around school, Aramis told me last week.”

“Aramis always thinks everyone’s sick, he’s a hypochondriac,” Sylvie says. 

“That… is true. Still the flu, though,” Athos says. 

“Ok,” Sylvie says, getting to her feet and stretching with a groan. “I hate office work. I’m going to quit next month, I’ve been doing this two years, that’s long enough. Maybe I’ll try and get some theatre work, next.”

“That would be awesome,” Athos says. “I love the theatre.”

Sylvie rolls her eyes and goes to bang around in the kitchen. Athos hopes she makes something that won’t smell to strongly, he doesn’t really want to be vomited on today. He’s still got his nice jeans on from work.


End file.
